Dangerous Race

Tonight's pouring of lights and sounds will be quick and crude.  Allow me to set the stage.

I was a Senior in high school, exempt from all of my final exams, but required to be present at the education facility until noon.  On this wonderful May day of freedom, I made modest plans to see a movie with some friends during the afternoon, when the theatre would not be overrun by eighth graders dressed like twenty-somethings.  For the integrity of this story, I must first describe three very important things.



Firstly, my car.  My car is my trusty steed.  I drive a white '96 Nissan Sentra.  My mom drove him first, then my brother, then me.  His name is Benito Juarez.  Benito earned his name effortlessly.  My brother's name is Ben, so, as an homage to his previous driver, the name "Benito" seemed fitting.  "Little Ben."  Secondly, on my sixteenth birthday, when I got my driver's license, my good friend Andrew gave me a twenty peso mark, on which the face of Benito Juarez, the first president of Mexico, glares disapprovingly.  In a moment, we had come to the conclusion that my car was actually only worth about twenty pesos.  And henceforth, Benito Juarez was born, and his name stuck marvelously.

Most of the car has retained its white coloring.  Signs of aging have stained his pure shell, but he still gleams in the sunlight on a blinding yellow day.  His most distinguishing feature is the scar he retains from a front end wreck many years ago when my mom was the driver.  Even though the white paint was replaced after the bumper was repaired, that replacement paint has, since then, chipped away at a startling rate, leaving Benito with a mostly black bumper with specks of white paint clinging and hoping to be remembered.  My friends and I call it his mustache.  Because Benito is easily recognizable, and because I've had him for so long, and because of his catchy name, he has earned a deep place in my heart, and I find that he has a lot of character for a car, compared to most.* (See footnote.)

The second new character in this play is my friend Michael.  Michael and I have been friends since the second grade.  We were in Boy Scouts together from second grade up through high school, and we earned our Eagle Scout awards side by side.  I find now that if I had to name my longest running friendship, it is my friendship with Michael.  Michael is a large man.  He towers at 6'3" and weighs in at over three-hundred pounds.  With these numbers in mind, I have seen Michael perform feats of strength that would make a normal man pale in fear.  On more than one occasion, I have recognized Michael as a "great bronze god," not for his appearance, but for his bravery in the face of danger (or more likely, stupidity in the face of danger).  Michael is also, without comparison, my geekiest friend.  I say that with unbridled love.  When I truly want to play a good game, when that burning desire overtakes my attention to convenience, Michael is the man I call.  With all of this in mind, I must now inform you, reader, that Michael is a man with long, greasy blonde hair, an unkempt, curly blonde beard, and a perpetual gloss of sweat on his brow.  He drives a red Jeep Liberty.  (This is an important detail.)

The third player is my good friend Derek.  At the time of this memory, we had known each other for only about a year, but now he is one of my best friends.  He would want me to tell you that I am friends with him out of fear, but also for protection.  Derek has the uncanny ability to bend the forces of the world to his divine will.  For this reason, I keep him close.  Someday, he will be my mightiest enemy, but for now, his company is intriguing and entertaining.

Call it coincidence, but Derek is also quite large in stature, only slightly smaller than Michael, and also with amazing strength.  Derek fashions himself after Mufasa, the lion king.  He keeps his mane shiny and silky smooth, and his beard formidable.  He prides his beard like a king should.



And now to the play.  The three of us meet in the parking lot, with the sun shining brightly overhead.  Michael saunters to his Jeep, while Derek and I huddle into Benito.  Michael drives in front of us, calling out, "How about a friendly race?  A gentleman's pride bet."

"Agreed."

We both make it to Hwy 288 in inconsequential time from the high school.  Michael's Jeep takes off, spouting forward like the water from a faucet.  It seems at home on this highway.  Benito trails behind, as I pat him on the dashboard.  "Take your time, friend," I say.  Benito has his kick, and executes it professionally at all times.  It is not long before I overtake Michael's little red floozy on the road.  On the short 15 mile stretch from Angleton to Lake Jackson, it seemed Benito had clenched his victory.  The conclusion seemed more and more certain as we were about to pass an 18-wheeler.  Success in that endeavor would leave Michael trapped behind us, and victory assured.

In a frightening turn of events, Michael and his red machine rushed through the small gap between the tanker and Benito, bringing us all an inch or two closer to meeting our respective makers.  Michael's red Liberty imprisoned Benito behind the tanker.  In a few short seconds, we were both clear of the 18-wheeler.  However, after Michael's show of stupid bravery, I reconciled to let him keep his dignity.  He was clearly willing to risk more to win this "gentleman's pride bet" than I was.

In short, I let the foolish man win.



*Benito's personality was only further enhanced when I received an Autobot magnet from a family member a year ago.  With the addition of the Autobot magnet, Benito's allegiances were confirmed.